


Rarely Pure, Never Simple

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol, as it turns out, does not dull the effects of curses. It does, however, result in drunken phone calls to angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rarely Pure, Never Simple

  
Most people go their whole lives thinking that the truth is a good thing. Complicated, but…good. I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The truth will set you free. That sort of bullshit.

People don't realize that life is a lot more like that one scene from "A Few Good Men". The truth is a concept, same as love, and hate, and humanity. The truth is a force. That doesn't make it inherently good, or bad, it just _is_. But the thing is, people are very rarely, if ever, ready to hear the truth about themselves. Other people, sure, bring it on. But not themselves.

Luckily, Dean doesn't know anyone here. The only people who even know he's cursed are Sam and Bobby, and Bobby is all the way across the country, and Sam is…

Well, Sam is Sam. A day ago, Dean would have doubted that. Sam's been acting so strange, Sam let him get _turned_ , and that can't possibly be his brother, his Sammy, except…

Except he froze. Apparently. And Dean is just going to have to accept that.

"I might sleep with you," their waitress at Big Gerson's says. Dean stares determinedly at his hands, folded neatly on the tabletop. Sam clears his throat. "But only if you wore my ex's t-shirt. I really miss him, you know."

"That's great. Bacon cheeseburger, fries, Coke."

Sam taps his fingers against the table. "Just water for me, thanks. And a turkey wrap."

"Your chances go up by fifty percent if you invite him to join us," the waitress informs them. Dean scrubs at his cheeks with his palms.

"You know, you'd think that you'd be eating this up." Dean gives Sam a look that he hopes conveys the exact nature of his resentment and displeasure.

"Yeah, well, I'd sort of prefer it if random women didn't just come up and _proposition_ me."

"And me," Sam adds. Dean grits his teeth.

" _Yes_ , Sam, and you. It's creepy."

"At least you know the truth, now. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Dean covers his eyes, but that doesn't block out the sound of everyone around him spilling their secrets. The only calm spot in this sea of…of _truth_ is Sam, who seems to be able to contain himself, so long as Dean isn't asking him direct questions.

"Sometimes I wonder what a threesome would be like," Sam says.

 _Or maybe not._

Dean lowers his head to the tabletop, pressing his cheek against the cool Formica.

"Bacon cheeseburger with fries and Coke, turkey wrap and water," their waitress says, reappearing at Dean's elbow. "You look like you're about to cry. Just so you know, I find that sexy."

Dean closes his eyes and groans.

~

"I think my wife is cheating on me," the clerk at the gas station says. "I feel like she's hiding something from me, but every time I ask her if something's wrong she tells me that everything is fine." He pauses, and then adds, almost as an afterthought, "The bitch."

Dean presses the heel of his palm against his right temple, taking a deep breath.

"I just need to put twenty dollars on pump one."

"Maybe I'm just overreacting…But she's never been so _secretive_ before." The clerk takes Dean's twenty and rings up the gas, then presses the button labeled _PUMP 1_. "I just don't know what to do."

"Have you tried _talking_ to her," Dean grits out. The clerk stares at him.

"I went to summer camp when I was in grade school," he says, after a long and contemplative pause. "One of the older kids made me take off all my clothes and jump into the lake. He watched the entire time. And after? He wouldn't give me back my briefs. I think he kept them."

" _Fuck_ ," Dean says, and escapes while he still can.

~

Going back to the bar and trying to drink the truth curse away doesn't help, either. The bartender from before is gone, replaced by a man with short, blonde hair and blue eyes. He pours Dean a shot of whiskey and then stands there, watching him drink it.

"Rough day?"

And for a second, just a brief second, the hope that maybe there is _one_ person in this God-forsaken town that _isn't_ affected by his curse blossoms in his chest. Dean nudges his empty glass towards the bartender, and then gestures for him to bring out more.

"Could say that," he murmurs. "Tell you one thing, though. Don't ever make the mistake of asking for the truth."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you won't be happy when you get it." The bartender sets out another five glasses and pours out a line of shots; Dean dutifully draws them closer and begins to knock them back. The point of this venture isn't savoring, it's getting as drunk as he physically can in the least amount of time possible. He's sure the few glasses of whiskey he's already had today will help with that.

"Well, I'm betting not _all_ truth is bad."

Dean takes a deep breath, his throat warm with the booze. "No. But it's all _creepy_."

The bartender smiles. "Is it creepy if I tell you I want to take you into the back room and blow you?"

Dean stares.

" _Kind_ of," he says, and then hastily pulls out a handful of bills, and leaves them on the bartop.

So much for a nice night out at the bar.

~

When Dean gets back to the motel, Sam isn't there. He breathes a sigh of relief, and then collapses onto his bed, still unmade from last night. He doesn't even bother to take his boots off, just stares up at the ceiling, idly reaching for his pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

He scrolls through his contacts, holding the phone up to his face to keep the words from blurring too much – it used to be that Sam was the person he called the most. Now, in order, it's Castiel, and _then_ Sam. Castiel never actually answers his calls, but sometimes…sometimes Dean just dials the number and listens to Castiel's bizarre little voicemail. It's not that he _expects_ anything. Dean just likes the sound of Castiel's voice, transported forward in time. It's Castiel's voice from back when things like baseball, and whiskey sours, and pornos still confused him. Could still elicit that furrowed brow and tilted head. Back when Castiel, on occasion, still made an honest effort to be _human_ , if only for Dean's sake.

He swallows, and then holds the phone to his ear and presses _call_. It only rings three times before going to voicemail, and Dean turns his face into the pillow as he listens.

Something warm touches his cheek, slides down it – for a second he thinks it might be Sam, come back from…wherever it is he usually goes. Sam touching him to see if he's asleep. But no, when he reaches up to brush the feeling off, his fingertips come away wet.

He isn't _drunk_ , he thinks. That's not why he's crying. It's just been a long time since he went out and tried to get seriously hammered. The whole having a kid thing…except he doesn't have to worry about that any more, he supposes.

The phone switches over to voicemail. _Hello, you've reached the voicemail of Castiel…_

And then, _I don't understand...Why…why do you want me to say my name?_ Castiel's voice, tinged with confused hostility, and then the sound of buttons being pressed at random. Dean wonders if Castiel gets all the messages that Dean leaves him, or if he's figured out how to delete them…or maybe he just never checks at all. He'd had enough trouble just _setting_ the voicemail.

 _Beep_.

"Hey Cas." His voice sounds rougher than normal. Dean chooses to attribute this to the whiskey, rather than the fact that something is _still_ wrong with Sam, rather than the fact that he's lost any chance he might have had at apologizing to Lisa.

Rather than the fact that he's lost his kid.

"Normally I'd say 'I wish you were here'," he continues. "But now I'm not so sure. Everything's changed, man. You, Sam…" He stretches his arm out, as if to try and show the enormity of everything that's changed. All he ends up doing is knocking his keys off the nightstand. " _Fuck_. I don't…I _can't_ do this, Cas. Used to think that…maybe I could be a decent dad. Maybe. I mean, I was messed up, I was _useless_. Don't know why Lisa let me stay, but she did, and I…I tried. Tried to take care of Ben. Teach him how to fix cars and…and build a fence. Dad stuff. And now Lisa hates me, and Ben is probably scared _shitless_ of me, and…and now look. Everything's fucked up. _Everything_. Sam's wrong. Lisa's gone. You're…I don't even know what you are. You're gone, too. Thought we were friends, man. Guess angels don't really have friends."

He closes his eyes. It doesn't make him feel any better. "Whatever. Just…delete this message when you get it. Or whatever it is that you do that doesn't involve _answering_ me."

He fumbles to press the _end call_ button, managing only after a few seconds of groping in the dark. Then he tosses the phone over the side of the bed, scowling into his pillow. Angels. _Fuck them_. Fuck all of them. They've been nothing but trouble since he first met Castiel, and it looks like that isn't going to change.

He doesn't know why he had the stupid idea that, maybe, _maybe_ , Castiel would come back and things would be like they used to. Dean would go on trying to teach him how humans worked, he would…he would take him to a movie and buy him popcorn, and Castiel would stare unnervingly at the screen, unblinking, not understanding. He would probably ignore the popcorn unless Dean made him eat it.

He'd had plans to try and teach Castiel how to drive. Not the Impala, of course, but something else. He'd have used a safe car, with airbags and working seatbelts, and those childproof windows that only rolled down halfway.

The phone vibrates against the floor, wherever it was that Dean ended up tossing it. It's a muffled, grating sound. Dean shoves his head underneath his pillow and ignores it. It's probably Sam. Dean is in no mood to talk to Sam about _anything_ , let alone angels, or drinking, or truth.

He falls asleep like that, ears covered and head buried, trying to block out the rest of the world.

~

"Dean."

He doesn't want to wake up. His head hurts and he thinks he might still be a little bit…not drunk, but _unstable_. Dean tries to pull the pillow down harder around his head.

" _Dean_."

The voice is accompanied by pressure, now – a hand touching his shoulder, shaking gently. Dean makes a noise that he thinks probably has no right to be coming out of a human throat, but whatever. He's pissed off and none of the whiskey has left his system yet, so he figures he gets a free pass.

"Go away," he mutters. The pressure doesn't let up. The shaking doesn't stop. "Go _away_."

"Dean," he hears. "You called me."

 _Oh_. Dean cautiously moves the pillow away from his eyes, just in case it's Sam trying to trick him into…into something. Dean isn't sure what, because it isn't like Sam is into the whole _talking out your feelings_ thing these days. But the face that's hovering over him resolves itself into short, mussed brown hair, and blue eyes, and a stern mouth. The face is attached to a tan trench coat.

"Hi Cas," Dean mutters. "Now go away."

"But you called me."

"Yeah, and I told you to delete the message. _Fuck_." What time is it? Dean moves the pillow a little bit more, trying to catch a glimpse of the alarm clock on the nightstand. It blinks at him, huge, glaring red letters: _4:27_

"I was…concerned," Castiel says, and Dean snorts.

"And I'd just had a few shots of Jim Beam. I'll forget it happened if you do."

"I do not want to."

Dean peels his eyes open all the way, peering through the darkness at Castiel. "Excuse me?"

The angel looks uncomfortable. He's perched at the foot of the bed, his coat flared out around him, leaning slightly in order to maintain contact with Dean. That's another thing that seems strange – Castiel hasn't stopped touching him. Shaking him, yeah, but not touching him.

"I apologize," Castiel murmurs. His voice is almost too soft to hear. "I do not know why I said that."

Dean groans. "Yeah. Unfortunately, I do. You know that truth curse that's been going around?"

Castiel blinks. " _Ah_ ," he says.

"Yeah. _Ah_. Might be best for you to leave, if it works on angels, too."

"I do not want to leave."

"That's the curse talking."

"Yes, but that does not make it less true. I am concerned about you, Dean."

"Me? I'm fine. Just _fine_. I mean, I've got a brother who's come back from Hell a total douchebag, my girlfriend broke up with me, my kid probably _hates_ me, and on top of all that I've been told no less than _six times_ today that I'm sex on legs and that I need to get naked immediately. God, do you have any idea how _weird_ that is, Cas?"

"No."

"Figures."

"But I understand the sentiment."

"What, feeling creeped out?"

"Wanting you to be nude."

Dean turns over onto his side, knocking Castiel's hand away from his shoulder. "Jesus Christ, Cas, not you too."

"I apologize. It is difficult to control."

"Yeah, well. Not like anyone can help it, I guess. At least it's less creepy when you do it. It's not like I have anything to hide from you."

"You are not concerned that I might…?"

Dean laughs into his pillow. "No. No, Cas, I'm not concerned that you _might_ anything."

"That is foolish."

The pressure returns, this time against the space between his shoulder blades. Castiel lets his hand rest there, breathing quietly. Everything sounds louder in the darkness, and the emptiness. Dean doesn't turn his head to look, just breathes out and tries not to think of the dream he had the day after he'd gone back to Lisa. The dream where Castiel had showed up on his doorstep, and he had been _smiling_ , and he'd said _sometimes you do not need to make a choice._ Dean can't remember how the dream ended – he sort of suspects that it never ended at all.

"Don't do anything that you'll regret," Dean whispers.

"I would never hurt you."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

The pressure moves along the curve of his spine, hesitating, and then stopping at the top of his jeans. Dean cautiously lifts up his hips, and Castiel reaches for his belt. The whole thing feels like another dream.

"Tell me a truth that doesn't hurt," Dean says.

"All truths carry with them a certain degree of pain."

"Then tell me a lie."

The sound of his belt sliding free of his jeans is too loud. It's almost like a gunshot. The buckle _clinks_ as Castiel drops it onto the floor, and then his hands return, cupping Dean's hips but not moving any further than that. Castiel is ancient, probably as old as the planet itself, so there's no way he doesn't know how sex works. Dean impatiently lifts his hips again, but Castiel doesn't move. He lowers himself back down to the bed, shifting uncomfortably. He's hard as a rock, but Castiel isn't _doing_ anything.

"I find it difficult to lie, given the current situation."

"Try."

Castiel sighs. Dean raises his head, confused, as the pressure against his hips vanishes, only to be replaced by a long line of heat against his side. Why is Castiel lying down? All Dean has to do is get up on his knees, and they could…

"Sometimes I think that you are the closest I have ever come to experiencing an emotion as human as love."

Dean's breath hitches. "That's a hell of a lie."

"Perhaps. If that is how you choose to take it."

"Then you'd better tell me something else, before I start believing you."

"I respect you too much to engage in sexual intercourse while you are inebriated."

"I'm not drunk."

"Nor are you sober."

Fingertips press against the curve of Dean's cheek, and then move upwards, touching his temple. "Cas," he says, "don't you dare."

"Sleep, Dean. Forget that this ever happened."

"But I don't want to," Dean whispers. Castiel's fingers press forehead, digging against his skin.

Dean blinks, and everything goes dark.

~

The buzzing of a cell phone wakes Dean up.

He peels himself away from his pillow; everything feels like it's made of sandpaper and awfulness, but he still manages to hang himself over the edge of the bed and fish around for his phone. His belt is down there, too – he must have started to get undressed and then just sort of…forgot about it.

It's Sam. Dean flips the phone open, and then holds it to his ear. "Speak softly," he mutters, "or I will kill you."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and then Sam's voice. It's soft, as requested.

"We need to talk. About the curse."

"Sure." Dean reaches up with his free hand, scrubbing at his face. He can't remember what happened last night, but it looks like he came back to the hotel room alone. _Thank God for small wonders_ , he thinks. "Soon as you come back to the motel."

"I've been trying to keep an eye on the one body we have left."

"Yeah, well. Not like we're going to find anything else out from it. Get back here."

He hears Sam take a breath. It's almost a sighing sound. For some reason it sends a shiver down Dean's spine. _Something's happened._ Yeah, but what?

"Okay," Sam says. "I'll be right there."

"You better."

The phone clicks, and Sam is gone, but Dean holds it to his ear for a moment longer, half convinced that he's going to hear something else.

He sort of wants to call Castiel. Just to let him know what's going on. It's a habit he's gotten into – it used to be that the person he called the most was Sam, but now…now it's Castiel. An angel who pretty much wants nothing more to do with him and his messed-up brother.

Still, his thumb hovers over the _call_ button while he decides what to do.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and presses down. The phone only rings three times before going to voicemail.

 _Hello, you've reached the voicemail of Castiel…_ And then, _I don't understand...Why…why do you want me to say my name?_ The sound of buttons being pushed. Dean smiles, even though his head is pounding.

"Hey Cas," he says. "Just calling to…I don't know, tell you what's going on. Stupid, yeah? I know you're probably watching anyways, but it…" _It makes me feel better._ "Anyways, thought I'd tell you that Sam is coming back, and…and I don't know, Cas. Something's still wrong. Maybe I'm just overreacting. He passed the truth test, after all." Dean sighs. "Well. Things always seemed a lot less insurmountable when you were around. All right, gotta go. Sam will be here any minute. And hey, if you can mojo down something for this hangover, I'd really appreciate it. Bye, Cas. Wish you were here."

 _Beep_.


End file.
